


Vacuum

by caloriebomb



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Belly Kink, Chubby Dean, Feeding, Feeding Kink, M/M, Stuffing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 08:31:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3930052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caloriebomb/pseuds/caloriebomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: Dean and Sam settle down and Dean gets a job at a restaurant. In their new civilian lifestyle Dean is restless and twitchy and always anxious, and finds the only way he can really calm himself down is to fill himself with food. It settles his mind and makes him feel heavy, grounded. Needless to say, he starts putting on weight pretty quickly. Sam doesn't mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vacuum

They settle in Kansas, go figure. An old hunter-turned-realtor acquaintance of Bobby's hooks them up with a cheap little gem of a two-story outside Lawrence, in a quiet town with long stretches of field and asphalt and sky. Four times a week, Sam makes the half-hour drive into the city for class at the University, and Dean takes a fulltime gig at Carson's Grill, a local mainstay with cheap beer and surprisingly delicious food. His co-workers are nice people who like to drink, and don't ask questions. Sam loves school and Dean makes decent money. They're maybe thinking about getting a dog. It's all very apple-pie.

“No apple today,” says the cook at the Grill. “We got cherry, though. Want ice cream on that?”

“Yes, please,” says Dean. “Thanks, Rachel.” It's 7am and there are no customers save for a few old couples huddled together in the booths by the window, and Dean's behind the counter with a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. The other server, a twenty-three year-old named Jenny, is drinking coffee and nibbling a couple pieces of toast while she flips through a fashion magazine. As jobs go, Dean has to admit he likes this one. Rachel is the owner as well as the cook, and she's laid-back as hell. As long as you get your work done, she's happy to let you read the paper or do Sudoku or, in Dean's case, sample the pie each morning. Rules are, as long as you're working, all food is free, and off-shift it's 50% off. Generous. 

In fact, this whole retirement thing is working out great, Dean tells himself. And it's not a lie... except for the nightmares and the constant, itchy sense that there's something he should be doing, someone he should be saving. He's got a knot in his throat from the moment he wakes up to the moment he goes to sleep, a frantic feeling that everything is going to fall apart at any second. He knows his tension makes Sam tense, too. Sam wants him to talk to someone, but what would he say? He just has to get used to it. Get used to being safe. 

He stuffs another bite of eggs into his mouth and swallows, crunches down on a strip of bacon and savors the salty grease of it. Recently he's noticed that he feels calmest while he's eating and then right afterwards. Eating gives him something to focus on, something pleasurable and harmless and rewarding, and when he's really full, it's like his body finally recognizes that it's out of danger. All his hyper-alertness dissipates for a while and he can float on a sea of sated calm. He always starts off his shifts with a good meal. 

“Here y'go,” Rachel says, and slides an enormous, steaming piece of cherry pie in front of Dean, heaped with vanilla ice cream. “Whipped cream?”

“Hell yeah,” Dean says, and watches as she spoons thick homemade whipped cream onto his plate. He's been working here for almost a month, and can't imagine getting sick of the food. It's all made-from-scratch, even the fries and the batter for the onion rings. He takes a heaping spoonful of pie and closes his eyes in bliss, the hot pastry mingling perfectly with the cold ice cream and cool smoothness of the whip. God, that's good. He glances at his customers, judges he has a little less than five minutes before they're going to want their bill, so he eats quickly and neatly, cleaning his plate in under three and then swiping up the cherry filling with his finger. He's still got some bacon left, so he eats that quickly, too, then burps softly. 

Jenny giggles. “You're like a walking advertisement for this place,” she says. “You love the food even more than our customers do!”

“It's true,” he says, then burps again, stifling it behind his wrist. He's pretty full, but still feels jumpy, buzzing with anticipation for a danger that he knows won't come. But his customers have pushed their plates aside and are glancing up, now, and a few more people are walking in the door, so he knows he doesn't have time for more. Reluctantly, he heads back out behind the counter, and starts the breakfast rush. He's so busy he doesn't have time for a breather until three hours later, when there's a welcome lull and he ducks behind the counter again. 

“Ready for a snack?” Rachel asks. 

“You know it,” Dean says, smiling gratefully, and Rachel fries up a big basket of onion rings, which Dean covers in ranch dressing and demolishes in record time, the batter still so hot it nearly burns his mouth. Rachel makes him a basket of waffle fries, next, which Dean leaves hidden behind the counter so he can munch on them between orders. When he gets off at 2pm, he has a double bacon cheeseburger and another piece of that heavenly pie, and drives home enveloped in the warm, hazy fullness he's come to crave. 

When he gets home, Sam is sitting at the kitchen table with his homework and looking so studious and serious that Dean can't help but lean down and kiss him, run his hand through Sam's stupid shaggy hair. 

“Hello to you, too,” Sam says, grinning, once Dean releases him and heads to the fridge for a beer. After a moment's hesitation, Dean gets out a bag of Doritos, too, and settles across from Sam. “How was work?” Sam asks, kicking him gently under the table.

“Busy,” Dean says, cramming a handful of chips into his mouth. The salty crunch is so good with the cold beer. In truth, he's still pretty full from lunch, but he knows that as soon as he's empty, the other emptiness will come back, so he gives an internal shrug and keep crunching. He can feel his poor, bloated stomach pressing against the waistband of his jeans, and he lets out a series of loud belches, as much to annoy Sam as to let out some of the pressure.

“Gross, dude,” Sam says, predictable as sunrise, and Dean grins. They sit in companionable silence, Sam studying, Dean finishing off the bag of chips before he heads to the living room to take a nap on the couch, exhausted from a full day and, if he's honest, from being so full. He works a hand between his waistband and belly and presses down a little, palm flat on his stomach, feeling chilled-out and stretched-out to the max. 

He's always had a fast metabolism, but still, he feels a slight pang of guilt when he thinks of the way he's been eating lately. Gotta slow your roll, Winchester, he tells himself, but then gets a little panicky to think about taking away the one tried-and-true method he has of making himself feel better. What's a couple pounds, if they bring peace along with them?

Sam wakes him a couple hours later, and Dean's surprised to find it's dark out. He takes his hands out of his pants where they'd been soothing his belly, and Sam runs a hand down his chest.

“Time is it?” Dean mumbles, raising himself up on his elbows. He can feel the gnaw of anxiety begin to eat at him. The darkness outside the window seems ominous and grim, and he grabs Sam's wrist despite himself, just wants some touch. 

“Six,” Sam says, stroking Dean's face. “You've got pillow creases on your cheek. I'm getting hungry – you down for pizza tonight?”

“Meat lovers, extra cheese,” Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes, but he orders a couple larges while Dean paces the perimeter of their house, and they settle in for the night with a six pack and a couple of old movies. Dean immediately chugs two beers and crams the first three slices into his mouth without hardly tasting them, but by the fourth he's feeling calmer and takes his time, enjoying the heavily-laden pizza and the beer and Sam's arm around him. He eats slowly but without pause, and is surprised after the first movie when he leans forward – a little uncomfortably, his stomach is so bloated – to find there's only a few slices left. 

“You know you just ate an entire pizza on your own,” Sam tells him, sounding a little disgusted, a little impressed. Dean burps and leans back with what will have to be his last piece – he doesn't think he can fit anymore in there, he's packed so full. He bites off the triangle end and swallows.

“What can I say,” Dean says. “I love pizza.”

Sam reaches over and pats him on the belly, laughing a little. “I can see that.”

He's right – even Dean can see it, a slight rounding of his bloated belly, pushing out under Sam's hand. “Ugh, I'm full,” he admits. “Just tastes so good.” He rips off another bite, bigger this time, and breathes around it. “Keep your hand on me, Sammy,” he says, and Sam does. 

That night he wakes up sweating and shouting, his heart racing a mile a minute. Sam is curled around him, not quite holding him down but almost, chanting, “Dean, Dean, wake up, you're safe, I'm here, wake up babe, c'mon.”

“I'm awake,” Dean says, and lies completely still for a few minutes, breathing deep when Sam tells him to, trying to get his heart rate back to normal. Sam's face is creased with worry, his hair a tangled mess. 

“You need a glass of water?” Sam says. “A – a cup of tea or something?”

“No,” Dean says, but he rolls into a sit and plants his feet on the floor, elbows on his knees, head hanging as Sam rubs his back. What he needs is –

“C'mon,” Sam says, standing, offering his hand. “Let's go to the kitchen. I'm going to make you some hot chocolate and a snack.”

A snack. A snack sounds good. Dutifully, Dean follows, and sits at the kitchen table while Sam heats him up a steaming mug of hot chocolate and fries him a gooey, comforting grilled cheese sandwich. He feels better after just the first bite, and by the time he's licked the butter from his fingers and drank the last dregs of his second mug of creamy chocolate, he's feeling mellow and calm. Sam leads him back to their bed and tucks him gently in, kisses his forehead. Dean's out like a light.

The next night, when he wakes again, panting and shaking, Sam makes him another grilled cheese, and the night after that, Dean doesn't wake his brother up, just pads into the kitchen and eats cookie dough ice cream until he's calm. If Sam notices that their ice cream is disappearing at a rapid rate between the hours of midnight and six am, he doesn't say anything, but he keeps the freezer stocked full. 

Dean starts stashing candy, too – Snickers bars by their bed, Butterfingers and Reese's in the car, bags of Peanut M&Ms on the countertop and in the living room by the TV. If he wakes at night and doesn't want to disturb Sam by getting out of bed, he quietly unwraps a Snickers. It's probably hell for his teeth but he invests in an electric toothbrush and starts brushing three times a day to combat his late-night snack habits. Sam doesn't know about the candy, though once he kind of wakes up while Dean's munching and squints at him, confused, before falling back asleep. He doesn't say anything the next day.

And if Sam does wake up with Dean, he always makes him a grilled cheese. It gets to be a nice ritual between them, both of them sleepy and sweet with one another, Dean chasing cheesy crumbs around his plate with Sam's hand resting on his knee, then Sam's hand on his belly afterwards, soothing his late-night digestion. It's not perfect, but it works. 

 

Little by little, Dean gets a reputation at the restaurant. He starts and ends each shift with a meal – in the morning he'll have a slice of pie and a shortstack or a breakfast sandwich, and then when he gets off he'll usually have a cheeseburger and another slice of pie. Meanwhile Rachel knows to make him baskets of fried things to munch on while he works. Usually fries and onion rings, but sometimes hot wings, too, or mozzarella sticks, or even the loaded nachos, covered in melted cheese and sour cream. 

Too, he starts eating anything that gets sent back – not hot enough, not cold enough, ham where there was supposed to be sausage, etc. During one eight-hour shift he eats a burned grilled cheese sandwich, a Mexican omelette accidentally made with ham, two orders of too-crispy bacon, a melting hot fudge sundae, and a BLT with too much mayonnaise. This on top of a basket of cheese fries and the sausage-and-egg sandwich he had for breakfast with his customary piece of pie. He's so full it honestly hurts, his stomach hugely bloated and cramping beneath his red apron, but he feels somehow blissful, too, completely calm and zonked-out on food. He feels happy, heavy, totally grounded. 

“With you around, we don't need a vacuum cleaner,” Jenny jokes. “You're our own personal Hoover!”

He sits down at the end of his shift with relief, his stomach still aching, his waistband painful on the tender skin, and he almost doesn't order lunch. But he can't waste a free meal, and he knows too well that soon enough the food buzz will wear off, so he gets something light, just a fried chicken sandwich, and eats it slowly, puffing for breath near the end. God, he's full. He goes into the bathroom and looks at his belly in the mirror, the way it rounds out from under his pecs, packed-full and so tight it's almost itchy. He rubs the stretched-out skin and decides he's going to ask Sam for a belly rub when he gets home. 

“See you tomorrow, Hoover!” Jenny calls as he shuffles out the door, and that's it: the nickname sticks. 

“Hey, Hoov, got an extra side of sausage from table 3.”

“Yo, Hoov, table 16 wanted the Mud Pie not the Blueberry, knock yourself out.”

“There's a well-done steak and fries back there, Hoov, if you're interested.”

At night he and Sam almost always order in or go out, and he can feel Sam's eyes on him as he packs it in. One evening they go for Italian and Sam stares as Dean polishes off a plate of fried calamari, a bowl of creamy potato soup, a huge plate of steak fettucini alfredo and then an order of tiramisu, plus about six or seven dinner rolls and at least half the small bottle of olive oil on their table. 

“Jesus, Dean,” Sam finally says, when Dean's shoved the last bite of tiramisu into his mouth and is breathing heavily. “You skip lunch or something?”

“Yeah, actually,” Dean lies, embarrassed. “We were so busy I didn't have a second.”

“Poor baby,” Sam says, eyes softening, but he's still looking at Dean a little funny. Correction: looking at Dean's stomach. Dean sits up straight and tries to suck in a little, but he's too full and his stomach pools out over his waistband, a prominent round bulge that Dean has to admit is there even when he's totally empty. He's put on weight, he knows. Not that much, a few pounds here, a few pounds there, but it's getting hard to hide completely.

Dean feels guilty lying to Sam, especially since he ate not only his lunch, but about four others, too, but he's ashamed to admit how much he's eaten that day. Doesn't even want to think too hard about it, himself. He hunches a little, trying to hide the belly, but it just rounds out further so he gives up and leans back, skimming his fingers over the crest of his stomach and burping quietly. He should really cut back. He needs to figure out how to get himself in good mental shape without the cushion that fullness gives him – because he's getting a different kind of cushion, too, one that's not exactly welcome. 

Honestly, he doesn't mind all that much, not if the extra weight means extra calm, but he doesn't want Sam to notice, and he sure doesn't want Sam to be grossed out or turned off. But when they get home, he lies in bed and Sam strokes his belly with firm, round touches, and it feels so good Dean can't remember to be self-conscious. 

 

“So,” Jenny says one morning as Dean's finishing off his pie, “you in training, or something?”

“Hmm?” Dean says, looking up from his plate.

“Eating contest?” she says, then blushes at Dean's look of confusion. “I just mean,” she said, and gestured with her hand, encompassing Dean's two empty plates, and the place where his belly has started pushing out gently against the front of his apron. “We've had a few employees – and customers – on the eating contest circuit. I just thought --”

“No,” Dean said, and it's his turn to flush. “I'm... I'm just...”

“Hungry,” she finishes, and he laughs. 

“Yeah. Though an eating contest's not a bad idea.”

“You'd be a contender, for sure,” she says, just as their co-worker Alex slides a plate of pancakes in front of Dean and says, “Chocolate chips instead of blueberries. Go to town, Hoov.”

“Thanks,” Dean says, reaching down to adjust his pants a little, waistband feeling tighter than ever before. He reaches for the syrup and douses his plate, starts eating. He's still blushing a little, and he knows Jenny's still watching him, but it feels so good, the sweet spongy pancake and the melting butter, feels so certain, so calming, and his full belly is weighing him down in the best way. He leans up against the counter a little to get some pressure on his full stomach. 

“I like a man who can eat,” says Jenny, and smacks him on the butt as she goes to check on a customer. 

She's not the only one who's noticed. 

“You've been pretty hungry lately,” Sam says, as Dean starts in on his second carton of lo mein. He's already had four eggs rolls and six peking dumplings, plus a lot of Sam's fried rice and General Tso's, and he's leaning way back on the couch cushions, the carton right under his chin so he can shovel it in while he watches the new Star Trek movie Sam had brought home. 

“Uh, yeah, guess so,” Dean says. “Just – it's been so busy lately, at work, you know, I just – can't help but skip some meals.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, watching as Dean takes another hasty bite, an enormous one that has him nearly choking. “Relax, dude, I'm not going to take it away from you,” Sam says, then reaches over and flicks Dean's fly where he's unbuttoned his jeans. “I'm just making an observation. You should really try and have lunch; then maybe you won't be so starving when you come home.” 

“You're right,” says Dean, “I'll try,” but the next night he orders two eggplant parmesan subs and a side of meatballs, and makes the same excuse.

“Skipped lunch,” he grunts, prizing the top off a carton of brownie batter ice cream that Sam just brought home. 

“Try not to,” Sam says again, watching as Dean presses self-consciously on his full stomach and starts spooning ice cream into his mouth. 

He tries not to notice what's happening to his body. Tries to ignore the way his pants are getting tighter and tighter, straining around his ass when he bends over and pinching around the tops of his thighs. Ignores the way he has to knot his apron differently to compensate for the curve of his stomach (not a gut, no, not yet), ignores how it's getting less and less comfortable to button his flannel shirts. He doesn't look in the mirror, avoids reflective surfaces, and he turns off the lights when he and Sam fool around. He can feel Sam's hands, though, groping curiously at his fuller ass, gripping his hips and pinching his stomach, and he wriggles away from those touches, sucks in his belly when he feels Sam's hands on him. 

They go out for drinks one night with his co-workers, and Dean stifles his anxiety by ordering a quesadilla for himself and a Munchie Platter for the whole table, even though he and Sam had dinner just a few hours ago. He demolishes his quesadilla and then eats most of the Platter himself – four mozzarella sticks, six hot wings, half a basket of chicken fingers, fistfuls of french fries, onion rings, and jalapeño poppers that he dips liberally in ranch dressing and blue cheese, all the while pouring beer down his throat. They're in a booth, Dean tucked up beside Sam, and Sam's hand stays on his knee the whole night, as grounding and comforting as the food. 

“Don't you get enough of this fried stuff at work?” one of his co-workers, Becca, asks, as Dean gnaws on a hot wing with one hand and tries to surreptitiously get his jeans undone with the other. He's stuffed so full of food and beer that his stomach is almost rock hard, and he can trace the outward bow of it beneath his shirt, settled out over his waistband and impossible to suck in. 

“Sick of chicken wings?” Alex asks. “No such thing, right Hoov?”

“Hoov?” Sam says, raising an eyebrow. 

“That's what we call your boy, here,” Alex says. “Hoover. He's our resident vacuum cleaner. Eats anything the customers send back.”

“That happen a lot?” Sam asks. 

“Uh, let's see,” Becca says, “this morning he put down at least two omelets and a cheeseburger.”

“And some Cajun Hashbrowns,” Alex says. 

Dean chugs the rest of his beer and lets out a guilty belch. Today was a day he'd claimed to have skipped lunch, and he can feel Sam staring at him, but he doesn't look back, just grins at his co-workers. 

“Can't let good food go to waste,” he says, and Rachel high-fives him. “More beer,” he says, and moves away from Sam to get another pitcher. 

By the end of the night he and Sam are both more than six beers deep and not too proud to leave the Impala in the parking lot and accept a ride home from Jenny, the DD. They squeeze into the back, Dean's stomach gurgling and sloshing and rounded from everything he's shoved in it, his jeans unbuttoned beneath his t-shirt, which is tighter than it should be and shows off the dip of his navel and the way his belly mounds out over his waistband. Sam's elbow digs into the side a little, pressing into the extra pudge, and Dean's too drunk to mind. 

After they say thank you to Jenny and stumble into their house, laughing and swearing and shoving at each other, Dean collapses onto their bed tummy up, bloated and sated and happy, and Sam straddles him gently, knees on either side of his body, hands on his face, making out like teenagers for a while until Sam pushes Dean's shirt up to his chest and puts his hands on the bow of Dean's belly. 

“Damn,” he says, sitting back on his heels to get a better look. “You really packed it in tonight.”

Dean burps, discreetly. 

“And today, from what I hear,” Sam says. 

“Been hungry,” Dean mumbles. 

“I can tell,” Sam says, though he doesn't say it meanly. He pats Dean's belly, squeezes it a little, grips his hips and the muffin top that flows subtly over his jeans. “Think you can fit more in here?”

“More?” Dean says. 

“Got some ice cream today,” Sam says. “I kinda... kinda wanna feed it to you while we fuck.”

“Goddamn,” Dean says. “Sammy, you kinky bastard.”

“Is that a yes?”

“That's a yes.”

Sam disappears and returns with the carton of ice cream and a spoon, and something in Dean twinges in pleasure at the thought that there's just one spoon – this, this is all for him. 

“Okay,” Sam says, “um, how bout you – if you could sit up against the pillows a little...”

Dean hauls himself up, blinks as the room spins a little, and Sam clumsily climbs on top of him, til he's more or less in Dean's lap. “This okay?” Sam says. “Am I too heavy?”

“You're perfect,” Dean says, and Sam tugs Dean's shirt back down over his stomach, then rubs his knuckles over the fullest part, just over Dean's belly button. The contrast of the t-shirt material against his stretched-tight skin feels so good. Gently, Sam reaches under the little pooch of Dean's tummy to where his jeans are unfastened.

“I'm going to do this button back up,” Sam says. “Okay?”

Dean doesn't ask why, just nods.

“Can you – can you suck in for me?” Sam says, and when Dean shakes his head, he laughs and manages to button the pants anyway. “That hurt?” Sam says, tugging on one of Dean's belt loops.

“A little,” Dean says. “But it's okay.”

Sam holds the carton of ice cream between them and loads up a huge spoonful. “Open wide,” he says, and Dean does, takes the entire too-large mouthful and swallows it down. Lets Sam feed him another enormous bite, some chocolate dripping from the edges of his mouth that Sam licks up and turns into a kiss. Another huge bite, even messier, and then another one, Sam digging at the carton to get the biggest spoonful possible, shoving it into Dean's mouth and barely giving him time to pause before the next huge spoonful is served. Soon enough Dean's smeared in chocolate and groaning, trying to take everything Sam is giving him even as he feels the ice cream settle like a stone in his stomach. They're both hard, both their cocks lined up and hot and stiff through their jeans, and Sam fumbles at his own pants and shoves them down, takes his cock in his hand and thrusts against Dean as Dean struggles to swallow the most recent spoonful of ice cream. Half the carton is already gone and Dean doesn't know if he's ever been so full, so aching, so hard. 

“I can't,” he says, gasping, “no more,” and Sam shuts him up with another spoonful, Dean spluttering and swallowing as Sam grinds on him.

“Really,” Dean says, as soon as he has some air, “Sammy, stop it, I'm gonna burst.”

“Really?” Sam says. “Like, safeword stop?

“Yeah,” Dean gasps. “Or I'm gonna puke.” He can feel the possibility roiling in his overfull stomach, ice cream heaving towards his throat. 

“Can you do one more spoonful, you think?” says Sam. 

“God,” Dean says, plucking at his jeans, “maybe if you, if I...”

“I'll unbutton your pants if you eat one more spoonful,” Sam says, and Dean sucks in a difficult breath, nods once. Sam takes his time, loading up the spoon with more ice cream than anybody could ever fit in their mouth, and puts one hand on the back of Dean's head, tilts his face towards Sam's. “Open,” Sam commands, and Dean opens. Sam maneuvers the spoon in, trying to fit as much ice cream as possible, the excess chocolate spilling over Dean's lips and sliding down his chin and neck and dropping onto his round belly as he chokes down the thick cream. “Good boy,” Sam says when he's finished, and presses his warm lips to Dean's cold ones, licking into his chocolatey mouth, both of them drunk and sticky and grinding up against one another. 

True to his word, Sam unbuttons Dean's jeans, then, and shoves Dean's shirt off, running a hand over Dean's rounded stomach in what seems like awe. “Jesus christ, you're full,” Sam says.

“No shit,” Dean wheezes. “Touch me, you asshole.”

“Look at yourself,” Sam whispers. “Covered in ice cream, so round... Do you eat like this every day, man? Stuff yourself full at work and then come home to me and say you're hungry?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, too full and horny to lie, and Sam palms Dean's belly. 

“I can tell,” he says. “You're putting on weight, been putting it on for weeks. I can see it in your ass, you know. And your face. Your face is getting pudgier, right here.” He nips at the softness around Dean's jawline. “Not to mention this stomach. So fucking big right now. You like that ice cream, Dean? Did it feel good?”

“Feels so good,” Dean moans, as Sam eases his jeans and boxers down and grabs Dean's cock.

“Gonna make you feel even better,” Sam promises, and lowers his head down to close his lips around the head, his hair brushing the sensitive skin of Dean's belly. “You did such a good job swallowing for me – now I'll swallow for you.”

And he does. 

 

They wake up the next morning in a hungover mess of chocolate and come, both of them sticky and rumpled. Dean's head and stomach are both throbbing, and he looks down at Sam beside him, sweetly blinking his bleary eyes and moaning, “Oh my god, what a night.”

Dean eases himself upwards, settling a palm on his still-bloated belly, scratching gently at his itchy sides and wincing at how round it still is, how he can't tell what's bloat and what's not. He vaguely remembers Sam telling him he's gaining weight in his face, and he prods with his fingers, though it doesn't feel any different. 

“We need a shower,” Dean says, and for the first time in a long time, he and Sam crowd into the shower together, all the lights on, Sam's soapy hands running up and down Dean's (softer) sides and across the taut line of his belly. They fuck gently, careful of their respective hangovers, and afterwards Dean climbs into his clothes with real regret, the tightness of his pants more unbearable today than ever before. He feels confined and in a little bit of pain, his belt digging into the sensitive underside of his stomach, his shirt wrinkled where his pecs meet the top of his belly, riding up a little over the swollen mound. He pulls his shirt down, tries to take a deep breath, avoids the mirror as he heads to the kitchen. 

“Sit down,” Sam says. “I'm making pancakes, eggs and bacon. You want yours scrambled?”

“Sure, thanks,” Dean says, knowing he shouldn't be hungry, but feeling hollow all the same, craving fullness. He watches as Sam flips pancakes and sizzles bacon and then scrambles eggs into the bacon grease and grates some cheddar into them, and then Sam watches him as he puts away four pancakes and at least half a cup of syrup, spoonfuls of butter, five scrambled eggs and a half pound of bacon. By the end of breakfast he's not too proud to lean back, groaning, and unfasten his jeans again. His stomach settles into the gap and he slowly rubs his knuckles up and down his sides, which itch and pull like a healing wound. 

Sam reaches forwards carefully and pats his stomach. “You – uh, you still hungry?”

“Nope,” Dean breathes. 

“Okay,” Sam says, and swallows. “About last night...”

“I liked it,” Dean says.

Sam dimples. “Yeah, me too, but...” He rakes his eyes over Dean's empty plate, Dean's unbuttoned jeans, his still-bloated stomach, and bites his lip. Dean can tell he wants to say something else, but whatever it is, Dean doesn't want to hear it, so he stands quickly, one hand on his sloshing stomach, and leans down to drop a kiss on Sam's head.

“Thanks for breakfast, Sammy,” he says, and slinks off to rub his belly in peace. 

Dean goes to work that night at four, and to his surprise, Sam comes in at nine, an hour before close, and sits at a back booth. It's not that strange – Sam often comes in – but there's a certain look on Sam's face that gives Dean pause. He orders a double bacon cheeseburger, which is definitely out of character, and when it comes he pushes it away without even taking a bite. 

“Too well-done,” Sam says. 

“What?” Dean says. “It's medium rare, dude, just like you wanted.”

“Too well-done,” Sam repeats. “Tell the cooks I'm sorry to waste food.” He's staring at Dean and Dean's eyes widen in understanding. 

“Okay,” Dean says, “I'll ask them to re-make it.”

He tells Rachel, who complies with a snort, and then he stands in sight of Sam's booth while he eats Sam's medium rare burger, as rapidly as he can, shoving in hasty bites between visits to customer's table, and since it's a pretty damn slow night, by the time Sam's new burger is ready, Dean's finished and Sam is smiling. 

“Here you go, Sammy,” Dean smirks, setting the new burger down, but again, Sam pushes it away without touching it. 

“Sorry, man,” Sam says. “Did I forget to mention I didn't want cheese?”

“You're kidding,” Rachel says, when Dean relays this request. “Your boyfriend is a finicky motherfucker.”

“That he is,” Dean says, and settles at the end of the counter again to eat his second double bacon cheeseburger. Sam's his only customer now, and so Dean takes his time, feeling the second burger settle heavily on top of the heap of nachos he'd finished just before Sam had entered. Plus the fried chicken basket and two slices of pie he'd had upon arrival. He muffles a series of cheesy burps into his shoulder, and when Sam's third burger is ready, he still has about a quarter left of the second still on his plate. He puts it down, wipes his fingers across his aching stomach, and heads out to give Sam his meal.

“All right, smartass,” Dean says, “third time's the charm, right?”

“I wanted it well-done,” Sam says, staring at him.

“Dude,” Dean says, “quit playing around, this is my job,” but Jenny's overheard the conversation and her delighted cackle pierces the air. 

“Rachel,” he hears her say, “Sam wanted it well-done!” and now Rachel realizes what's going on, too, and they're both cracking up. 

“You shouldn't'a told him my nickname,” Dean rages as Rachel starts frying up the fourth burger. 

“You don't hafta eat it,” Rachel counters, but goddammit, Dean's never backed down from a challenge, so he finishes the second burger in a couple quick, desperate bites, and starts in on the third, jaw aching a little from chewing. He shovels it in, doesn't worry about a mess since Sam's the only customer in the restaurant and they're about to close anyway, and with every painful, beefy bite, Sam's smile gets bigger and bigger and Dean's stomach hurts more and more. He leans against the counter, trying to give his overfed stomach some support, but the motion just pushes another belch out of him and Jenny and Rachel laugh even harder. 

“Here,” Rachel says, when the fourth burger's finished and Dean is red-faced and wheezing but done eating. “God help you if Sam don't like this one.”

But Sam beams when Dean sets it down and says, “Perfect,” and eats the whole thing. Meanwhile Dean sits at a nearby table to roll silverware, his belly pressing uncomfortably against his apron, his breath coming short, burger all the way up to his lungs. He leans back, which helps, but only a little. He reaches under his apron to pop the button on his straining jeans, looks down and gets a little jolt of shock when he sees how round he looks, how obvious his over-eating is. It's mostly from being full, he thinks... but honestly it's been so long since he's been hungry and empty, he doesn't really know. 

“I'm impressed,” Rachel says. “Impressed, and worried. How you feelin'?”

Dean hiccups, wincing, one hand resting on the crest of his stomach. “Not... not too hot.”

“You're a crafty dude,” Jenny tells Sam. “I like you.”

“I'm sorry,” Sam says, “I just couldn't let that nickname slide. It's too good.”

Dean gets him back by charging him for all four burgers, which is kind of a moot point since they share a bank account, and Rachel lets him go early so he and Sam can ride home together, since Sam walked. 

“Dirty trick,” Dean says, rubbing his stomach as Sam drives. He feels achy and sluggish but so beautifully calm, like the enormous amounts of food pressing on him from the inside have mitigated any other pressures in his life.

“Just tryin' to teach you a lesson,” Sam says. “You eat that much, there are gonna be consequences.” He reaches over and pats Dean's stomach, thumb circling the outline of Dean's stretched-out belly button. 

“I'm gonna cut back,” Dean grumbles, and Sam hums a little and keeps rubbing. 

“I'll believe that when I see it,” he says. 

 

Dean tries. He really does. For about three days, he tries to eat like a civilized person, but his stomach growls and cramps with hunger and his hands start shaking and there are monsters looking over his shoulder again, so the fourth day he comes home from a day of panicking at work and devours a large pepperoni pizza, an order of garlic bread sticks, three twinkies, a King Size Snickers bar, and a six-pack of beer. Then he jerks off and starts in on a pint of Cherry Garcia. Sam's at school, and comes home that night to survey the effects of Dean's binge – trash strewn around the living room, tissues full of spunk, Dean's pale taut stomach pushing out over the unzipped waistband of his too-tight pants, his t-shirt rucked up almost to his belly button, and Dean sprawled on the couch sucking on spoonfuls of ice cream, panting a little from fullness, chewing, burping, breathing, burping, chewing. 

He starts guiltily when Sam comes in, but all Sam says is, “Diet's over, huh?”

Dean grunts and shoves another creamy bite into his mouth, tugging at his tight t-shirt, flushed with embarrassment and maybe something else. Sam sighs and drops next to him on the couch, slips a hand between his boxers and belly and says, “You're gonna need new pants, babe. Look, you've got marks on you.”

It's true. Angry red lines striate Dean's belly and hips, and Sam gently rolls down the tight waistband of Dean's boxers and strokes a finger across a few of the deepest, reddest ones. Dean hauls himself up to sit against the couch cushions, pulling away from Sam's touch even though it feels so wonderful. Sam's right, of course – Dean can barely button his jeans anymore, and when he does manage to get them done up, they're so uncomfortable he can barely move. He has to tug them down under the curve of his belly, which only serves to accentuate the growing fullness of his middle – the other day he caught sight of himself in his waiter's apron and winced to see the push of his belly against the stiff red fabric, the outline of his belly button and the way his jeans cut into his hips obvious even in the faint reflection of the restaurant's window. 

“Quit it,” Dean says, pulling his t-shirt down and trying in vain to get his pants fastened, trying to hide his swollen belly from Sam's questing fingers, his face reddening as he gives up and lets the flaps of his pants fall away. 

“I'm not kidding about getting new pants,” Sam says. “The way you've been eating...” He trails off, bites his lip. 

The way Dean's been eating. 

It's the elephant in the room, and has been for weeks, Dean knows this, but Sam can never seem to bring himself to address it directly. Just dances around it like this. Dean huffs out a difficult breath and then hisses a light burp, kneading his belly unconsciously, trying to soothe it. He can't meet Sam's eyes. 

“What'd you eat tonight?” Sam asks, and Dean tells him in a monotone. Sam shakes his head slowly. “You must be pretty full, huh?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, and a belch roils up from his tortured stomach as if to illustrate his point. 

“You didn't finish this ice cream yet, though,” Sam says, peering into the still mostly-full pint of Cherry Garcia. 

“Uh – no,” Dean says, and lets out another deep burp, which feels awesome. Sam takes the pint from him, and Dean figures he's going to cap it and put it back in the freezer, but instead Sam slowly, thoughtfully loads up a huge bite and nudges it against Dean's lips, which open instinctively, partly out of shock. 

The second the huge mouthful of ice cream hits his throat, Dean's hard. 

Of course he remembers their recent ice-cream feeding session, though they've never talked about it. He's been jerking off to the memory every day since. And when Sam feeds him another impossible bite and Dean chokes a little trying to swallow it down, he nearly grows woozy with how turned-on he is. What the fuck? He's so, so, unbelievably full, packed tight from the inside, the skin of his belly stretched and shiny and over-worked, and he knows if he keeps eating he's in real danger of vomiting – but he lets Sam push more ice cream between his numbed lips. He sinks farther back into the cushions, trying to give his stomach more room, and grabs at his belly. Sam bats his hands down. 

“You're packing it on, babe,” Sam says. “You think I don't notice? You can barely squeeze your ass into those jeans. And look at this.” He palms Dean's middle, grips it like a basketball, fingers barely making a dent in the stretched-tight skin, and Dean gasps for breath around another huge spoonful of ice cream. “I bet you've put on twenty pounds in the last month.” Dean chokes on more ice cream, gets it down, thrusts up into Sam's hand as Sam grips his cock through the material of his boxers. “You want to eat?” Sam murmurs. “Then eat.” 

He presses more ice cream into Dean's panting mouth, doesn't let him swallow that bite before he's loading more in there. He pushes Dean's boxers and jeans down around his ankles and starts jerking him off in earnest, feeding him, jerking him, Dean gasping for air and dripping ice cream everywhere. 

Dean swallows the last bite and comes, explosively. 

Afterwards, Sam mops them both up and jerks himself off, Dean too full to minister to him. Dean feels like a beached whale, gasping for air, wheezing through his overstuffed belly, hugely rounded and stretched-out. He falls asleep on the couch, unable even to heave himself up to go to their bedroom, and the last thing he remembers is Sam kissing him and pulling a blanket up over him. 

The next day, Sam has school early and Dean has the day off, so he wakes up late, and alone. His stomach is gurgling and the first thing he does is stumble to the bathroom and sit on the can for a while, trying to work through the late-night food he'd slammed down. Then he brushes his ice-cream coated teeth and pulls on a pair of Sam's sweatpants, tugs them down below his belly and pulls on an old t-shirt. 

Takes a deep breath and looks at himself in the full-length mirror for the first time in a while. 

His face is definitely rounder, pudge encroaching on his jawline and under his chin, blurring the lines of his bone structure. It doesn't look too bad, he doesn't think – but it's certainly noticeable, from what he looked like before. His arms seem a little fleshier, too, and his pecs are meatier. Under the t-shirt his belly presses tight against the material, his navel outlined clearly, the shirt riding up and wrinkling under his pecs even with just a few brief movements. He tugs it down, watches it inch back up. There's a crease starting at his waist, the beginnings of a fold where his lovehandles swell out, and when he looks at his rear view, he sees his ass is straining the seat of the sweats. 

Twenty pounds. Maybe. Probably a little more, if he's being honest. He palms the swell of his new stomach and pushes his finger into that crease beginning at his waist. Lowers his head, watches his chin double ever so slightly. 

He doesn't know how Sam feels about this. He's warned Dean to slow down, to eat less, but the way he fed him ice cream those two times suggests something else. Dean frames his belly between his hands and strokes the roundness of it, disgusted with himself, with how he's let himself go, and worried that Sam's disgusted too, by the way he's been eating like there's no tomorrow. Anxiety grows in his chest the more he thinks about it, and he tries to suck his stomach in but it hurts too much, so he lets it pooch out again and cups the growing undercurve and tries not to panic. Automatically, hand still on his belly, he paces out to the kitchen to settle his mind.

There's a box of a dozen donuts on the counter, and a piece of paper that just says, Good Morning in Sam's tidy scrawl. Dean finds himself smiling, and opens the box to peek. Cream-filled, jellies, glazed... everything he likes. He pours himself a big glass of milk, thuds down into a kitchen chair, and selects a Boston crème, bites into the pillowy softness and feels himself relax. 

He means to have just one or two, maybe three, but with every donut he crams in, he grows calmer and more convinced that Sam's okay with this, that Sam maybe even possibly likes it. And just like that, he's guzzled half a gallon of milk and is pushing the last bite of the last donut into his panting lips, belly ballooned back up to its now-natural state of being totally stuffed. He pushes his chair out from the kitchen table and spreads his legs and then, because fuck it, no one's home, he lies down flat on the tiles of the kitchen floor and tries to catch his breath. He pushes his sweatpants lower under the curve of his gut and wheezes, massaging his sides and rubbing slow circles around his poor stretched belly button. The cool tiles feel good against his heated skin. He can feel the milk and donuts gurgling around inside him, and he resolves to let this bellyful digest before he shoves anything else in there. 

Sam comes home that evening to find Dean sitting on the front porch, still in his sweatpants and t-shirt, halfway through a six-pack. He's got one hand tucked up underneath his t-shirt, cupping his stomach soothingly, though true to his resolve he hasn't eaten anything since those twelve donuts hours before. Well, he had a couple peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and a few Reese's cups, but other than that he's given himself a break. He snatches his hand away as Sam comes up the stairs and tugs his t-shirt down. 

“Thanks for breakfast,” Dean says, when Sam leans down to kiss him.

“You leave any for me?” Sam asks, and Dean blushes, shakes his head and hiccups as he polishes off his third beer. 

Sam regards him for a minute, and Dean fidgets under his scrutiny. 

“I picked you up some new jeans,” Sam says finally. “I think they'll fit, but you'll have to try them on.”

“Hey, thanks Sammy,” Dean says, still blushing. “Want a beer?”

Sam accepts one and takes a long swig, sitting down beside Dean on the porch swing and slinging an arm around his shoulders. “I was thinking Mexican tonight,” Sam says. “There's a new place in town that delivers.”

“I could go for Mexican,” Dean says.

“Go try on these pants, and I'll place an order,” Sam says. He doesn't ask what Dean wants, and Dean decides not to tell him, curious to see what Sam will order for him. 

The jeans Sam bought are soft-washed denim, and loose – at least a couple sizes too big, but they're a hell of a lot more comfortable than Dean's current pair, and when he loops a belt around him they fit just fine and dandy. He comes out to the living room and models them for Sam, turning this way and that while Sam whistles. 

“They could be a little tighter right here,” Sam says, smacking Dean's ass, “but if you don't slow your roll a little, they will be, soon enough.”

“Yeah,” Dean says uncomfortably, not sure how to respond, but is saved by the doorbell. 

“Let's eat on the porch,” Sam suggests, and Dean grabs a couple plates and beers and takes them out to where Sam's spread the take-out containers on the picnic table they put out there. 

“Damn,” Dean says, surveying the expanse of food. 

“I just got a little bit of everything,” Sam says. “Since we've never tried them before, and your appetite's been – y'know. Out of control.”

It doesn't sound like an admonishment, but again Dean doesn't know how to respond, how to take the comment. So he hunkers down in front of three pork tacos and eats them each in about four big bites, very quick, very neat and tidy, licking his fingers and nodding as Sam tells him about school, about his dick of a professor, about the essay he has to write for Monday. Dean goes for a big foil-wrapped steak and cheese burrito next, eating without pause, bite and swallow, bite and swallow, fold back the foil, bite and swallow. He takes a little breather after the burrito, focuses on the box of chips and dip, and when he's crunched the last tortilla chip and scraped the bowl of queso and the last bowl of guacamole clean he lets out a long, low belch and reaches for a second steak-and-cheese burrito. 

Sam, meanwhile, is almost finished with his single burrito. He stares as Dean slathers sour cream onto his second burrito and rips off a big bite, chases it down with a swig of beer. 

“You, uh, you like this place?” Sam asks.

“S pretty good,” Dean says, and burps around another mouthful. Sam nods, and resumes talking, making Dean snort beer with his impressions of his dopey classmates. He picks at a taco as Dean pushes the last bite of cheesy steak into his mouth, hiccuping painfully, digging the heel of his hand into the side of his stomach. When Dean sips air, lets out a few good belches, and starts rooting around for another taco, Sam stops talking and starts staring. 

“You're not full yet?” Sam says.

Dean pauses, smooths a hand down his belly and presses a little, feeling the tight resistance. “No, I am,” he says, and hiccups painfully. again “Ouch. I just – there's only one taco left, and – I don't want to --”

“Do your thing,” Sam says, looking a little mystified, a little worried, a little interested, and he traps one of Dean's knees between his own and watches patiently as Dean crams in two more tacos. He's alternating now between hiccups and burps, stomach mounding out uncomfortably as he hunches over the table, and Sam says, “Wanna move to the swing?”

They do, and Dean slouches back, stretches his belly out and spreads his legs, the loose jeans even more comfy than his sweats. The old t-shirt he's wearing settles tightly over his stomach, showing off about an inch of belly at the bottom, and Sam gives it a tentative pat. “Do you want,” he says, and swallows. “Do you want me to...?”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, and Sam rubs it firmly, just enough pressure. They stay like that for a while, drinking and chatting until Dean feels up to moving, and then go inside and fuck, very gently, Sam cautious of Dean's overfull stomach. Dean falls asleep with Sam's hand resting on his belly, which gurgles beneath his palm as if responding to his soft touch. 

That night, Dean wakes up suddenly from a nightmare for the first time in a week or so, and Sam leads him into the kitchen for his customary grilled cheese. He drinks a few mugs of hot milk and devours the sandwich, and Sam says, “You haven't been having as many nightmares, lately.”

“No,” Dean says, pushing his plate away and adjusting his too-tight boxers beneath the swell of his stomach. 

“Think that has anything to do with your... appetite changes?”

“Yes,” Dean says, looking up at Sam, surprised and pleased. He doesn't want to spell it out for him, doesn't want to say “Eating calms me down,” but Sam nods thoughtfully, and doesn't comment when Dean goes to the cabinet for a bag of Peanut M&Ms, just cuddles up to him in bed and pops M&Ms into Dean's mouth until they're gone.

 

About two weeks later, Dean's hunched at the counter eating a post-shift burger and a thick slice of cheesecake when Becca sidles up to him and says, “We have a little Carson's bet going, Hoov.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean says, sitting up straighter and tugging his Carson's Grill t-shirt down. It's getting snug in all the wrong places – under his arms, across his meatier chest, riding up on his belly. The apron mostly hides it during work, but out of the apron he knows it's obvious how tight it's getting. 

“Yeah,” Becca says, “and only you can help.”

“Shoot,” Dean says, dunking a few fries in ranch. 

“How much weight have you gained since you started working here?”

Startled into laughter, and a little embarrassed, Dean palms his belly automatically. “I don't know, actually.”

“Becca, you jerk,” Jenny snaps, coming over to join the conversation, but Dean shrugs.

“Can't deny it, I guess,” he says. “I'm settling down... it's settling on.”

He winks, and the girls giggle.

“Tell you what,” he says. “I'll weigh myself and report back – provided I get to split the profits fifty fifty with the winner.”

“Done!” Becca squeals, and Jenny rolls her eyes but says she's sure everyone else will agree, too. 

That night, Sam brings home a chocolate cake and Dean cuts himself a huge slice and smothers it in ice cream, then takes his bowl along with a big glass of milk to the living room and stretches out on the armchair to eat while Sam sits on the couch and flicks mindlessly through TV channels. When he's done with his first slice, Sam takes the bowl from him without a word and brings back a second piece, just as large, just as ice-cream covered.

“We should get a scale,” Dean says, shifting a little uncomfortably. He's still packed and gassy from their Thai dinner earlier, and his first few bites of his second piece of cake aren't going down easy. 

“Oh?” Sam says, lowering the volume and turning to look at him. “Why, exactly?”

“I'm... y'know, I'm curious, about, about this,” Dean says awkwardly, and pats his stomach, then heaves a wet burp. He digs his knuckles carefully into the sore skin above his navel, doesn't look at Sam when he says, “If you had to guess... what do you think?”

Sam considers him for a moment, then, to Dean's surprise, he stands, comes over to the armchair and takes the big bowl of cake and ice cream from Dean's hands, then sinks down so he's straddling his brother, resting carefully on Dean's lap, their dicks, Dean's belly, and the cake between them. Dean's pulse quickens and his cock stirs.

“I don't know,” Sam says, and spoons a fudgy, dripping spoonful into Dean's waiting mouth. “You're getting a gut, though. A real one. All your shirts are too small.” He reaches down and gets a handful of Dean's pudgy right pec, then forces another enormous bite of cake past Dean's chocolate-smeared lips. “Pretty soon I think your chest is going to have a little shelf to sit on.”

Dean hiccups and Sam quickly fills his mouth with more cake. “Plus,” Sam says, “your ass is getting wider. I noticed the other day when I was walking behind you. Actually, everything's a little wider, and you're getting these little dimples in your elbows, I don't think you had those before. Your thighs are getting bigger, too. Your cheeks.” He pokes Dean's chewing cheek, currently full of cake. “Mostly, though, it's this belly.”

Dean would answer, but Sam grips his chin and pushes another gigantic spoonful of cake and ice cream past his lips. Sam has proved himself relentless in the two times he's fed Dean, and this time is no exception: Dean can barely swallow fast enough to take in the next bite. 

“I bet it's thirty pounds,” Sam says. “Maybe thirty-five. You've been stuffing yourself like crazy for... what, three months? You've got stretchmarks on your hips, your gut, even a couple on your back. And I have never, ever, ever seen anybody eat as much as you do,” Sam says, forcing another chunk of chocolate buttercream into Dean's mouth. “It's unbelievable. At first I thought you might be cursed, some side-effect from gluttony, but I ran all the tests on you secretly and realized, no, it's all you.”

He sounds almost... awed. And a moment later he leans forward and presses his lips to Dean's sweet, sticky ones, the tortured skin of Dean's belly bumping between them, hot even under his tight t-shirt.. 

“I'll get a scale for you tomorrow morning,” Sam says. “We'll weigh you before you have breakfast. What do you think, dude? You think you've packed on thirty pounds in two months? Do you feel bigger?”

“Yeah,” Dean wheezes, hiccuping. “Feel heavier. A little slower.”

Sam scrapes the last bite of heavy cake into Dean's mouth and leans back a little, puts both his hands on Dean's heaving gut then rucks up Dean's shirt and strokes firm, sympathetic circles across the broad curve of Dean's stuffed middle. “You okay with all that cake?” he says.

“Will be,” Dean says, sucking in a breath of painful air. “Just... just keep touching me. Don't stop.”

“I won't,” Sam says.

 

 

“Okay,” Say says the next morning. Dean's in his boxers and a t-shirt, standing in the bathroom in front of their shiny new scale. “How much did you weigh when we moved here?”

“Probably one eighty,” Dean says.

“Sounds about right,” Sam says. “Hop on.”

Dean climbs on, and peers over the swell of his stomach to see the red numbers whirr and shift. When the number settles, he grips his belly in surprise and Sam lets out a low whistle.

“Two thirty-five, dude,” Sam says. “That's – jesus christ, that's more than fifty pounds. In three months. Almost twenty pounds a month. Holy shit, Dean.”

“God damn,” Dean says, palming his gut, trying in vain to smooth his tight shirt down all the way. “No wonder I've got these stretchmarks,” he says, trying to joke, but panic is rising fast. Fifty pounds. More. In three months. How the fuck did this happen? How did he let it happen? He glances at his face in the bathroom mirror and sees that it's fuller for sure, and the softness under his chin is more resolved now, less hint than fact. He tries to suck in his tummy but it's too tiring, and as soon as he relaxes it bows outward like his abs have forgotten what they're there for. “Shit, Sam,” he says. “I could never hunt like this. I'm a fucking liability, a --”

“We're not hunters anymore,” Sam says, grabbing his hands. “It doesn't matter, Dean. Calm down. Take a deep breath, babe, c'mon.”

Dean sucks in a breath along with Sam, but it only serves to swell his belly out even further, and he looks away fast, still shaky, still anxious.

“Dean,” Sam says. “Look at me. It's okay. You're okay. Go get dressed and let's get some breakfast together, c'mon. Go put on your clothes and we'll go to Mal's, you love Mal's, we haven't been there in a while, c'mon.”

Mal's is a half hour drive away, and Dean taps into his Snickers stash in the glove compartment while they drive, hyper-aware of the way his belly and chest bounce a little with each pothole, though the two candy bars help and by the time they're in the diner, Dean tucked protectively into Sam's side, he's feeling a little calmer. 

He gets a chocolate milkshake, five chocolate chip pancakes, a side of sausage, a side of bacon, buttered toast and cheesy hashbrowns. Sam gets a fried egg sandwich, and is only about halfway through by the time Dean's sucked down his milkshake and swiped up the last bite of pancake. He pours syrup over his sausage, too, and by the time the bacon's gone Sam's finished his sandwich and is sipping coffee and talking about nothing while Dean slathers jam on his buttered toast and pours hot sauce on the thick puddles of cheddar cheese on his potatoes. He eats without stopping, bite after bite, loving the sweet and salty blend, savoring the butter on his toast and the fried grease of the hashbrowns. As he takes the last bite, breathing heavily, his belly has inched up his t-shirt hem so there's an inch or so of stomach peeking out over his waistband. He tugs it down and leans back, sated and happy, and Sam floats a hand over the swollen crest of Dean's stomach, rubs a little right below his softened chest.

“Better?” Sam says, and Dean nods. 

At work, Alex wins the $50 dollar bet, and he and Dean use the money to buy everyone drinks after the restaurant closes. They pack into a booth at the local bar and though Sam's at home studying, Dean's happy to be among people he likes, in a place he likes, with a pint of beer and a plate of nachos. 

They drink a few pitchers and Jenny says, “It's fucking cool how cool you are, Dean. I mean, about... you know, the bet, and just, like, eating whatever you want and not worrying.”

“I love eating,” Dean says. “It's my favorite thing to do... besides boning my hot boyfriend, obviously. Why would I deny myself one of the true pleasures in life?”

Alex reaches over and pats Dean's beer-and-food swollen stomach. “Why, indeed?” he says.

 

Dean and Sam don't talk about it much. Sam makes a few smartass comments here and there about new clothes and adjusting their budget to compensate for the vast quantities of food Dean consumes, but for the most part he's quiet about it. Takes it in stride that Dean will want a large pizza to himself, plus some kind of appetizer, plus dessert, and Dean notices that their stock of ice cream never runs out. Sam doesn't try to feed him again, however, and Dean doesn't know how to bring it up – doesn't know how to ask for it, how to explain how fucking much it turned him on. 

A week or two after the weigh-in, Sam comes home with a bunch of new cotton t-shirts, tosses them on the kitchen table and says, “Your shirts have worn out their welcome, dude. Time for a size up.”

Dean knows it's true, though he's been in denial about it. He likes his shirts. But they're all far too small, stretched tight over his belly and wrinkling around his chest, straining around his shoulders and riding up even if he's just sitting still. He's loosened his belt another notch or two, too, though he doesn't mention this to Sam. The too-loose jeans aren't so loose anymore, and true to Sam's prediction they're starting to hug his ass already. The new t-shirts don't do much to hide his gain – if anything, they make him look even bigger, his stomach so obviously round under their comfortable looseness.

“Look at this,” Sam says another day, coming home and swooping down to jiggle Dean's gut. “It's sitting on your lap.”

Also true. His gut has crept forward over his thighs and is now sitting primly atop them, and the belly-shelf that Sam predicted for his pecs is slowly coming true, a deep crease developing between his gut and chest when he sits. Self-consciously, he rubs the taut side of his belly, which always feel itchy and stretched and aching, though in the best way possible. 

“It's getting kind of heavy,” Dean confesses, patting it gently. He can feel it constantly now, as he moves around the restaurant, or drives the Imapala, or just walks to the kitchen, a heavy weight that leads him around and bounces now and then and bumps into things and needs to be filled and soothed. 

“I'll say,” Sam says, stroking it with something akin to reverence, and Dean makes a decision.

As soon as they both have the night off, Dean brings a cheesecake home from the restaurant and leaves it on the table in plain sight. They're eating steaks and frozen mac and cheese that night, both cooked or warmed by Sam, and after two steaks and three Family Style Stouffers macaronis, Dean is full but not unpleasantly so.

“Cheesecake for dessert?” Sam says, after they've finished dinner and Dean's made no move towards it. 

“Sure,” Dean says, like it was Sam's idea in the first place. “Wanna grab me a piece and bring it in the bedroom? I need to stretch out a little.”

Sam glances at him, then licks his lips and nods. Dean goes into the bedroom, shucks his shoes and socks and undoes his belt buckle in anticipation, and is not at all surprised when Sam shows up with the entire tin of cheesecake and just one spoon. Sam takes up his customary position on Dean's lap, and takes a moment to palm the girth of Dean's round stomach, squeeze his chest a little and explore the dip in his sides where his love handles spill out thickly. Then he loads up a spoon and hovers it over Dean's lips.

“Okay?” he says.

In answer, Dean leans forward and takes the bite off the spoon himself. After that, it's game on. 

Feeding himself is completely different than being fed by Sam. Sam is merciless, keeps Dean's mouth stuffed so full he can barely talk or breathe, and when his stomach starts churning about halfway through the cheesecake Sam just shoves Dean's shirt up and rubs his belly as he keeps shoveling the cake in. He has this gorgeous, focused intensity as he feeds Dean, all his brilliant energy channeled into this one act, and both of them are hard and thrusting and panting the entire time. Dean's face is covered in cheesecake, his stomach rock hard, heavy belches rolling through him as his overtaxed gut tries desperately to digest the thick creamy pie, and when Sam fucks him afterwards he's already so breathless from fullness that he honest-to-god passes out for a second when he comes. 

The next night, when Dean gets home from work, Sam's ready with a pan of peanut butter brownies and a shy, questioning expression on his face, and Dean beams at him. 

As the months wear on, he loosens his belt another notch, then another, and then the new pants start really digging into him, cutting into his hips and growing too tight around his widening ass and thighs. He's got a back roll, now, too, sees it in the mirror, a real roll that separates his upper back from his lower, and there's a hint of it in front, though the roundness of his gut mostly hides it. When he nods, he can feel a pad of fat under his chin, and his rings get so tight he has to stop wearing them. Even his fingers are getting pudgy. 

His gut keeps swelling forward, rounding out and filling even his loosest t-shirts, stretchmarks spidering along the underside and around his belly button. It's heavy and warm, and he keeps bumping into things, knocking glasses off counters or nudging people accidentally, his center of gravity changing along with the space he takes up. He can feel himself slowing down, can hear himself utter little grunts or puffs of breath as he leans down to tie his shoes or pick up the paper, and his back starts hurting more. 

When Sam feeds him, he starts resting the dish on the shelf of Dean's belly, stroking Dean's aching sides while a carton of ice cream drips onto the crest of his stomach between them. He rests beers there, too, and can't help but rest his hands there as well, palm settled comfortably on his belly as he sits and watches TV, or a hand pressed protectively to it as he walks, trying to get used to the weight of it and the space it takes up.

One evening Rachel calls Dean into her office and gestures for him to sit, which he does, thumping down with a small “Oof” that he can't quite contain. He shifts a little, spreads his legs trying to get comfortable, his chunkier thighs spreading across the narrow wooden chair and his waistband straining under his belly, slicing painfully into him, the button clinging for dear life. 

“Dean,” Rachel says, steepling her fingers and eyeing him seriously, and before he can panic, she says, “Have you ever thought about becoming a manager?”

“Uh,” says Dean.

Rachel keeps talking. “Because Becca's moving to Wisconsin and I need someone steady, someone I can count on and someone all our employees would be happy to follow. I think you'd be great. The position is yours if you want it, so just let me know.”

 

His new manager hours are heavenly and his new salary is fucking awesome, and whatever exercise he was getting as a waiter is completely slashed, for better or for worse. Within the first month of being a manager, he gains twenty pounds, which brings him up to...

“Two seventy two,” Sam says, peering over Dean's belly to read the scale. “Fuck, you're getting chunky, babe.”

Sam brought home new jeans and boxers last week, and Jesus, Dean can really feel these new twenty, and it's not all great. He's sweatier then he used to be, too hot with all his new padding, and his belly gets in the way when he's driving or slicing vegetables or even trying to sopa up in the shower. His face is rounder, his double chin more pronounced, and his ass is bigger, thighs wider, everything bigger, really – but still, most of the weight seems to settle in his round, firm gut, heavy but still not sagging when he stands, falling between his thighs when he sits. He can't sleep on his back anymore, gets too uncomfortable beneath the weight of his belly, so he curls on his side with Sam wrapped around him, belly lying next to him like its own creature. He's started snoring, unfortunately, though Sam claims he sleeps through most of it, and he has to admit he's a lot gassier than he used to be, burping through fullness or puffing farts as he tries to digest. 

“Shit,” Dean says, sitting heavily down on the closed toilet, his belly mounding out on top of his legs, thighs flabby and pale in his boxers. “If I keep this up...”

“I bet you'll plateau,” Sam says. “You eat – well, you eat a lot, but you haven't really been increasing how much you've been eating, so at some point your body's got to even out. Right?”

“Right,” Dean says doubtfully.

The next fifteen pounds creep on over months rather than weeks, suggesting that Sam might be right, but then he gains ten pounds in five weeks and hits 300 exactly a year and a half after moving to Kansas in the first place. 

“How's it feel to gain a hundred pounds?” Sam wants to know. They're sitting out on the porch swing, which is a tighter fit than it used to be. Dean's side is pressed into the armrest and he has to spread his legs more to accommodate his belly comfortably, a belly that's currently being topped off with beer and a package of Oreos, after a takeout dinner of pizza and chicken parmesan. It surprises him how full and tight he still gets after a big meal, surprises him how firm his gut still is, though it's finally started to droop a bit over his waistband when he stands, succumbing to gravity. He has to heft it up in order to button his jeans now. 

“A hundred and twenty pounds,” Dean corrects around a mouthful of Oreo, pressing the heel of his hand into his stomach and letting out a series of polite burps. “And it feels... heavy.”

“Yeah?” Sam says, in a tell-me-more voice, and Dean takes a long sip of beer, gets out another low pepperoni-flavored belch and places a stack of Oreos on his gut. 

“I couldn't do this a hundred pounds ago, for example,” Dean says, and Sam laughs, snatches the Oreos up and presses them through Dean's lips one by one until he's coughing around a huge mouthful of dry cookie dust, trying to choke down all three at once. He loves how rough Sam is when he feeds him, how forceful, and how gentle he is when he tends to Dean's belly, like now, passing his hand up and down the firm, aching curve of it, reaching under Dean's t-shirt to run his fingers over the angry pink stretchmarks that mark the speed of Dean's growth. 

"Come on," Sam says. "Indulge me. I really wanna know what it feels like."

"Well," Dean says, flushing a little, "it really does feel heavy. It's... you know, it's harder to get out of a chair then it used to be. Harder to bend down. Tying my shoes is no picnic. Feels good right here," he says, patting, "where it rests on my thighs. It's warm. I'm more, uh, more sensitive, as you may have noticed, especially my chest. I can really feel the weight when I walk, can feel it in my knees and my back and the way my gut kinda pulls me forward. It's -- I don't know, man, it's heavy! What else can I say?"

Sam is listening, rapt, and when Dean trails off he says, "I can tell you what it's like from my end, if you want."

"Okay," Dean says, and swallows a thick mouthful of cookie. 

"You waddle a little," Sam says, and when Dean squawks in protest he laughs and says, "Barely! Just a tiny bit. Your thighs have gotten pretty thick, if you haven't noticed, and I can see them rub together -- and I can see what you just said, about how your gut pulls you along. You kinda do everything belly first nowadays, especially when you're standing up. And your ass is so fucking round and juicy it should be illegal. You're louder, too. You breathe louder, you grunt, your belly's always gurgling or rumbling, sometimes I can hear it across the room. I like hearing you."

Sam pushes two Oreos into Dean's mouth and chases them with a kiss. Dean leans back a little further on the porch swing, knuckles the churning expanse of his sore belly as he chews. His back aches, his breath is coming in little puffs, his newish jeans are unzipped already and his newish t-shirt is riding up and exposing the pudgy underside of his round gut, and he hasn't had a nightmare in months.

“Here's how I feel,” Dean says, and grins. "I feel happy."


End file.
